Lehrter Station

by David Downing

  Russell put on his coat, wrote a short note to Effi, and went out to join him. It hadn’t snowed that day, but the temperature seemed about right, and the sky seemed to be slowly filling with the stuff. Dallin didn’t say another word until they reached the corner, and started down Königin-Luise-Strasse in the direction of the Grunewald.

  ‘You remember me saying that our two intelligence organisations would operate best if they maintained their separate identities?’

  ‘Something along those lines.’ This was obviously a rather big bee in Dallin’s bonnet.

  ‘But we do have to get on with each other.’

  ‘I wish you luck.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with luck. It’s about not crapping in each other’s garden.’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,’ Russell said, although a suspicion was growing.

  ‘I’ve spent half the morning on the line to Washington, listening to some Ivy League asshole tick me off for messing with Sherman Crosby’s plan to see off the Russians. Now do you know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  They crossed Kronprinzenallee and started up the lane which led into the trees.

  ‘The black marketeer who you thought was responsible for your friend Kuzorra’s imprisonment…’

  ‘And his death.’

  ‘You’re to leave him alone.’

  ‘Why the hell should I?’

  Dallin stopped and turned to face Russell. ‘Because I goddamn tell you to,’ he almost shouted. ‘And if that’s not enough, because he’s working for us. In fact I’m reliably informed that he’s one of our key people in this whole goddamn city.’

  The American losing his temper helped Russell keep his. ‘What does “reliably informed” mean? Who told you, and how do you know you can trust them? I can prove that Fehse – that’s Geruschke’s real name – ran the holding centre in Leipzig that shipped all the local Jews to Auschwitz, even those that bribed him not to with money or sexual favours. He’s a drug-dealer and a pimp. He’s been stockpiling insulin to push up the price while children are dying of diabetes. The Jews he supposedly helps are ex-Nazis with stolen Jewish identities…’ He broke off to let a worried-looking German hurry by with his dog.

  ‘Even if all that were true…’

  ‘Why the hell would I make it up!?’

  Now Russell’s explosion calmed Dallin down. ‘Even if all that were true, apparently we need him. You can’t always choose your allies – we just fought a war with the Reds, for Chrissake. And I won’t be telling you again. Leave the man alone, however big a bastard he is. Don’t go near him, don’t write about him, don’t pass the story on – we’ll know if you do, and nothing will make it into print. Forget about him. For your own sake as much as your country’s.’

  ‘For my own sake?’

  ‘According to Crosby, Geruschke was ready to kill you once, but agreed to let you go when they told him you were working for us. Crosby had no need to do that, and I doubt he would again.’

  ‘So if next time Geruschke really does kill me, he won’t get so much as a slap on the wrist?’

  ‘There won’t be a next time. Get it into your head – he’s off-limits. If he’s as evil as you say he is, then he’ll end up paying one way or another. Leave vengeance to God.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Well, if Geruschke doesn’t kill you, Crosby probably will. And if by some miracle you survive, you’ll certainly be off my payroll. But I’m assuming you do want to serve your country. That’s what you told Lindenberg in London.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Russell said automatically. What would happen to him and Shchepkin if the Americans kicked him out? What would Nemedin do come to that? His use to the Soviets would be over, and he couldn’t imagine their gratefully letting him go. A silver-plated bullet seemed likelier than a gold watch.

  He needed to think. He needed to talk to Effi, although he guessed what she would say – that Kuzorra had saved his life, and wouldn’t want him throwing it away over someone like Fehse. Which was probably true. But the detective deserved some sort of justice, and so did Fehse’s other victims.

  ‘It sticks in the throat,’ he told Dallin, ‘but you’ve made yourself clear. I’ll let him be.’

  * * *

  Effi was still not back when Russell got home, but Thomas was ensconced in his study, having just returned from his family Christmas in the countryside. Hanna and Lotte were following on after the New Year, which seemed reason enough for a celebratory drink. ‘I bought it from an American soldier on the platform at Erfurt,’ Thomas explained, as he opened the bottle of bourbon. ‘For a king’s ransom, but I felt it would help me deal with the Russians.’

  ‘You’re not going to waste it on them?’

  ‘No, of course not. Each time they almost drive me to distraction I shall remember that this little beauty is waiting at home.’

  ‘It won’t last long then.’

  ‘Probably not.’ He filled two short glasses that Russell recognised from pre-war days, and handed one over. ‘Gesundheit!’

  ‘Gesundheit,’ Russell echoed. The bourbon tasted wonderful. ‘So you had a good Christmas?’

  ‘Wonderful. For all the reasons you’d expect. And it was so good to get away from ruins for a while. How was your trip to Vienna?’

  ‘That was just the beginning.’ He filled Thomas in on what had happened since, concluding with the news that Miriam’s husband and children were his latest lodgers.

  ‘So Leon and Esther have grandchildren,’ Thomas murmured. ‘Which doesn’t bring Miriam back, but…’

  The way he said it drew Russell’s eyes to the black-framed photograph of Joachim on the mantelpiece.

  ‘He’d have been twenty-four in a few weeks’ time,’ Thomas said in an even voice. ‘Now that the war’s over, with all that we know of what happened in the East, his death seems… I don’t know, even crueller, I suppose. I only hope he did nothing terrible. Nothing he had to take with him’

  ‘Joachim was a good boy,’ Russell said, acutely conscious of how inadequate it sounded.

  Thomas just nodded. ‘Most of them were.’ He managed a sad smile. ‘I don’t want to live in the past – that’s not really life, is it? But sometimes… You know, when I got back to Berlin in August I borrowed one of the firm’s Russian lorries and drove out to where Ilse and Matthias died. I don’t know why really. I just felt like sharing the last things they’d seen. And it was such a beautiful stretch of road, especially in summer. I got out and walked around, and I started thinking about when we were young, Ilse and I, and all the good times we had growing up. She could drive me mad, but God I loved her. I remembered her bringing you home for the first time – an Englishman for heaven’s sake, and an even more self-righteous communist than she was. But Ilse insisted that we get along, and in the end she had her way. And when the two of you split up, she was determined that it shouldn’t affect our friendship, and she made damn sure that it didn’t.’

  ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘Ilse was special.’

  ‘That I did know.’

  Thomas shook his head and reached for a refill. ‘I wonder what she’d think of the family firm printing German schoolbooks written by the Soviets.’

  ‘She’d appreciate the irony.’

  Thomas grunted. ‘I read today that Hitler was evil incarnate, but that Stalin is God’s gift to the working man.’

  ‘Well, 50% wasn’t such a bad mark when I was at school.’

  * * *

  It started snowing around noon the next day, and persisted through the afternoon. By the time Russell stepped down onto the Jannowitzbrücke platform, several centimetres had fallen, and descending the outside staircase required considerable caution. That danger averted, he walked slowly westwards along the shell-gapped Spree promenade, eyes peering out through the curtain of snow for any lurking figures. There were none on either side of the yellow-lit shop that Shchepkin had specifie
d, but having passed it on the other side of the road he hesitated before turning back. Shchepkin’s reasoning had been clear enough, but that only mattered if his deductions were correct, and Russell wasn’t even sure what they were. He had chosen to trust the Russian, but not with any great confidence. Even now, the impulse to walk away was only restrained by his complete lack of an alternative strategy.

  He had told Effi only that he was picking something up. If things went wrong, she would know that he’d fallen foul of the Soviets, but not how or why. He should have told her the full story; his only reason for not doing so was his own awareness of how flimsy it all sounded.

  There was no point in putting it off any longer. He patted the pocketed gun for reassurance, and crossed the empty Rolandufer. Through the door of the shop he could see the proprietor, an old man with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, sitting behind his threadbare counter. He looked up as Russell entered, and shook out the Soviet-sponsored newspaper that he was reading.

  ‘Do you have a package for…’ Russell began, then realised he’d forgotten the pre-arranged name. ‘Liefke,’ he suddenly remembered, and almost wished he hadn’t.

  The old man found this lapse amusing, but pulled a thickish envelope out from under the counter and held out both hands, one with the package, the other for payment. Russell gave him the cigarettes, stuffed the envelope inside his coat, and let himself back out into the snow. There was a couple walking past on the other side, but Rolandufer seemed otherwise empty.

  He headed back towards the station, and gingerly climbed the slippery steps to the westbound platform. There were several other people waiting for a train, but none seemed to be watching him. He turned and looked out across the snow-shrouded Spree at the sparsely lit wasteland beyond. After dark this section of Berlin was about as welcoming as the Minotaur’s cave.

  But so far so good. No one had followed him up the steps, and a train was visible in the distance, its headlights gliding round the elevated curve. Another fifteen minutes and he would be at Zoo Station, and in the relative safety of the British sector.

  The carriages that pulled in to the snow-covered platform were fuller than he expected. Stepping in through the sliding doors, Russell turned right in search of an empty seat, and found one near the end. As the train pulled out he glanced sideways through the window of the connecting doors, and there was Nemedin, shaking the snow from his hat.

  Russell quickly looked away, cold sweat prickling on his back.

  His first coherent thought was that he and Shchepkin were done for. His second was to search, like a guilty schoolboy, for some plausible excuse. Could he walk up to the NKVD man and hand him the papers? ‘Oh, I was just looking for you; I got a tip-off that someone had stolen your personnel file and left it in a shop, and I knew you’d want it back.’

  Ridiculous. And he was willing to bet that the envelope in his pocket was singularly devoid of personnel files. If Nemedin had known everything in advance, he’d had ample time to remove the incriminating material and replace it with scrap paper. Hadleigh was waiting in vain.

  The train was pulling into Alexanderplatz Station, and when the doors opened it took all Russell’s strength not to run howling into the snow. Think, he told himself. What could he do? There was no point in running – if Nemedin knew about Shchepkin’s scheme, then he had enough on them both already. So why was the bastard stringing things out by following him? To find out where Russell was taking the package? Perhaps, although a penchant for sadism seemed just as likely.

  The train jerked into motion once more. There had been no shared glances, so Nemedin was probably unaware that Russell had seen him. But how did that help? What could? He and Shchepkin were finished. Unless.

  It was him or Nemedin, and he did have the gun. Could he kill the Georgian in cold blood?

  If he could manage it, he could live with it.

  He would have to lure him somewhere. Away from people. Somewhere quiet, but not so secluded that Nemedin would smell a rat.

  The train was pulling in to Börse Station. Where should he get off? He hadn’t been near Börse since April, and all he could see from the window was ruins. Friedrichstrasse was next, and that was always crowded. But Lehrter Station… He could lead Nemedin up past the railway yards, along the streets he’d walked the other week to Hunder Zembski’s garage. There had to be somewhere he could mount an ambush.

  It sounded like a plan, but so had Schlieffen’s. He resisted the urge to sneak a look at his pursuer, and tried not to convey the anxiety that was fluttering in his stomach. Perhaps Nemedin had got off. Perhaps his presence at Jannowitzbrücke had been the cruellest of coincidences.

  No. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

  The train stopped at Friedrichstrasse, where many got out and many got on. As the doors began to close he caught a glimpse of the snow streaming down through the shattered roof.

  He was at the right end of the train for the Invalidenstrasse exit at Lehrter. As the Charité Hospital loomed on the right he got to his feet and went to the door, giving Nemedin plenty of warning.

  Once on the platform, he strode rapidly towards the exit without looking back. The snow seemed heavier, a diaphanous curtain of small flakes. Even if Nemedin lost visual contact, he had only to follow the footsteps.

  Russell consciously slowed his pace. He couldn’t raise doubts – he needed the Georgian to feel safe, until he had him at his mercy. Not that any would be forthcoming.

  He reached the Invalidenstrasse exit, and turning right caught a hint of movement behind him.

  A couple of street lamps were burning, and the white flakes drifting past them reminded Russell of a snowglobe he’d once been given for Christmas. There were moving lights in the distance, and the sound of laughter closer at hand. A short way up on the other side, the silhouette of the district court building marked the entrance to Heidestrasse.

  He angled his way across the wide boulevard and slipped round the corner. There was only darkness ahead, and he knew this had to be the place. Nemedin would be crazy to follow him further. The man I shall kill, he thought. The title of Effi’s film.

  He took the gun from his pocket, checked that it was ready, and stood there waiting in the falling snow.

  One, two, three… he began to wonder if he’d imagined it all.

  Four, five, six… would he soon be laughing at his own paranoia?

  Seven…

  Nemedin came round the corner. Slowly, cautiously, but without a gun in his hand. The faint smile vanished the moment he saw Russell, or more particularly his gun.

  Russell pulled the trigger, aiming for the heart, and the echoing crash seemed, for an instant, to stop the snow from falling.

  Nemedin fell backwards, a look of surprise on his face.

  Russell stepped forward, steeled himself, and fired again. As he stood looking down, a snowflake landed on a glazed-over eye.

  He was wondering what, if anything, he should do with the body when his ears picked up the sound of an approaching vehicle. Two headlights were growing brighter on Invalidenstrasse. It sounded like a jeep. The Red Army.

  He began walking back towards the station, hugging the side of the buildings. Would the soldiers notice the body? And if so, would they bother to check who it was? He was about two hundred metres from the Stadtbahn station entrance, and he still had the wide and empty road to cross. The sector border was around here somewhere, but he was damned if he knew exactly where. And who would arrest the Soviets for trespassing?

  He heard the jeep behind him start to slow, then suddenly rev up again. There was no time to cross the road. He had to get off it. As he ran towards the railway bridge, a turning appeared on his right, a road running down through the bomb-twisted gates to the distant yard and sheds. The road itself looked depressingly straight, so instead he plunged down the snow-covered embankment. Losing his footing, he rolled the rest of the way, and slammed into a post that was half-concealed by the snow. As he got painfu
lly to his feet, he heard movement on the road above, a squealing of brakes and urgent voices. Somewhere behind him a bullet struck metal.

  He was only a few metres from the road bridge, and Jesse Owens would have envied his sprint into the shadows that lay beneath it. A few hundred metres up the tracks several glowing fires were visible – the refugee camp around the main line station. He started running in that direction, and was daring to hope that the Russians had given up on him when another bullet hissed past his head. Glancing back through the veil of snow he could see two figures on the tracks, and two more on the bridge.

  The next few shots were less accurate, and a line of empty cattle cars offered the chance to duck out of sight. He ran along behind the train, and as he neared the end, realised he had an audience – there were people living in the last few cars. He tossed his gun under one of them, and slowed to a walk as he passed under the elevated Stadtbahn and approached the main line platforms. Now there were lots of people, sitting or lying under the splintered canopies, or gathered round a line of makeshift braziers. As he walked up the platform he became conscious of a rising sound behind him, a strange blend of fear, surprise and loathing, as news spread among the German refugees that the hated Red Army had somehow caught up with them.

  Russell walked on, past the room where he and Effi had found Torsten and the children, and out onto the old concourse, where UNRRA was serving watery soup to whoever wanted it. He took a bowl and sat with it, keeping one eye open for the Russians, waiting for the shock to subside. His heart was still drumming inside his chest, and it was all he could do not to burst into tears. When the thought crossed his mind that he wanted his mother, he almost laughed out loud.

  Taking one life shouldn’t feel so huge, not when a war had killed millions. But by God it did.

  At least the Russians had thought better of invading the station, and after half an hour’s wait he judged it safe to take his leave. After consigning the envelope to a convenient brazier he walked back up to the Stadtbahn platform which he’d left an hour and a killing before.